CLAIMED BY A HIGHLANDER (THE DOUGLAS LEGACY Book 2)

by Margaret Mallory

  “Come inside,” he said. “I’ll send to the kitchen for something to eat and drink.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You’re wasting away,” he said, patting her arm. “Rory will be disappointed if ye lose that fine figure of yours.”

  If she were not feeling so weak, she might have kicked him. Instead, she gritted her teeth and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as they walked back toward the keep.

  “I appreciate your concern,” she said when they reached the hall and he offered again to send for refreshments. “But I’ll just lie down and have a rest.”

  “Certainly, my dear.”

  Sweat broke out on her brow as she climbed the stairs. The wheeled steps seemed to go on forever and made her head spin so badly she had to keep one hand on the curved wall to steady herself. Once she finally made it to her chamber, she collapsed on the bed.

  This was so unlike her. She was never ill. A wave of loneliness swept over her, and she suddenly missed her mother very badly. She wrapped her hand around the black stone pendant her mother had given her. Each of her sisters had a similar one cut from the same stone, which their mother claimed had magical protective powers. Whether it did or not, holding the pendant made Sybil feel closer to her mother and sisters. She drifted off to sleep with it clutched in her hand.

  When she awoke, she felt somewhat better. She had slept like the dead. She sat up and saw a tray of food and a flask of wine on the side table. Her host must have asked a servant to bring it while she was asleep.

  Her throat was parched, and she was starving. Because she was still a bit lightheaded, she took care as she eased herself to the edge of the bed to reach the tray.

  She was so thirsty. She poured herself a cup of the watered wine, but something made her stop. While she tried to bring forward the wisp of the dream she’d had before waking, her hand went to her pendant. She stroked the smooth stone with her finger.

  The dream was more of a memory, something from her mother’s tale about the stone. Her mother had seen a mysterious old woman appear out of the mist. Was that it? Nay. Suddenly it came to her.

  Poison.

  Her mother’s three sisters were poisoned. While her mother walked along the river and met the old woman who gave her the black onyx, her sisters consumed poison with their breakfast. They were dead by nightfall.

  Sybil sniffed the plum wine and the honeyed pear with cinnamon. Both had sweet, strong flavors that could disguise a poison. She thought Lovat had instructed his cook to use a heavy hand with the cinnamon, an expensive spice, to flaunt Lovat’s wealth. After the first evening when she remarked on how delicious the spiced pears were, Lovat had instructed that a bowl of it be brought to her at every meal.

  She had thought it a kindness. And he’d meant to kill her.

  CHAPTER 24

  Sybil had not spent years around court intrigues to let this threat go unanswered. Lovat had gotten the better of her once. He would not succeed again. Now that she knew his scheme, she would teach him a lesson.

  But first, she needed sustenance. Fueled by pure determination, she made her way down to the kitchen in the undercroft. Like all castle kitchens, it was busy with servants chopping leeks, turning spits, and scrubbing pots. When she entered, all activity stopped.

  “Go on with your work,” she said with a smile. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I found I’m too famished to wait for supper.”

  “Ye needn’t have come here yourself, m’lady. I’ll send someone to your chamber with whatever ye wish.” The man who spoke stood at the center of a long worktable with a brace of pheasants beside him and a large cleaver in his hand. He appeared to be in charge of the kitchen.

  “No need to send it up when I’m already here,” she said, and pulled up a stool. “Is that venison stew I smell? I’ll have some of that, if ye please.”

  “But—”

  “I’m a bit homesick, and that smells like the stew our cook used to make,” she said, turning her charm on. “When I was a wee girl, I was always sneaking down into the kitchen. I loved the smells and the bustle, and the servants spoiled me with sweet buns and such.”

  A middle-aged woman in a kerchief took a bowl from the open shelf, spooned a hefty scoop of the stew into it from the huge steaming pot that hung over the fire, and set the bowl on the worktable in front of Sybil.

  “There ye are, dear,” the woman said with a kindly smile. “And here’s a nice big cup of ale to wash it down.”

  “Thank ye kindly,” Sybil said, and dug in.

  There was no chance that a bowl from the common pot would have poison in it.

  “’Tis nearly time for supper,” the cook said between vicious whacks on a head of cabbage with his cleaver. “Ye don’t want to eat too much and spoil your appetite.”

  “Don’t fret about me,” she said. “I expect to thoroughly enjoy the meal tonight.”

  ***

  Every person has a weakness, and Lovat’s was his eldest son. Alain was a cocky young man about Sybil’s age. Up until now, she had avoided him as much as she could because of his unseemly fascination with her breasts.

  Tonight, however, she waited in the stairwell for him.

  She was playing a dangerous game, but she had to take drastic measures or she would have to worry about being poisoned by Lovat or his surrogates for as long as she lived in the Highlands—or at least until Rory set her aside.

  Of course, she could take all her meals in the kitchen and tell Rory when he arrived, but he would not handle the problem with the necessary pragmatism. At worst, he would run his blade through his uncle; at best, he would refuse to accept Lovat’s support. She needed to handle this on her own. The tricky part was teaching Lovat that he threatened her at his peril without jeopardizing his support for Rory.

  She stayed hidden until Alain entered the hall with two of his companions and timed her own entrance to cross paths with his. Alain bowed and remained bent over her hand with his gaze fixed on her chest until he finally remembered to straighten.

  “We’ve had great success hunting this afternoon,” he said.

  “I’d love to hear all about it over supper,” she said, taking his arm. “Will ye sit beside me tonight?”

  She felt Lovat’s disapproving glare as Alain guided her to the table and took the seat next to her.

  “You’re not sitting in your usual seat?” Lovat asked, and gestured to the seat next to him.

  “Sorry, Father, but Lady Sybil is a damned sight prettier to look at than you.”

  When the rest at the table laughed, his father could not object without appearing surly. Sybil gave Lovat a level look to let him know she’d planned it.

  “How are ye feeling tonight, my dear?” he asked.

  “Much better, thank you.” She gave him a bright, false smile to make him wonder what she was up to.

  He watched her like a hawk. Good, her host was worried now.

  The meal seemed interminable with Alain leaning over her and attempting to rub his thigh against hers. Sybil drank deeply from the cup of wine she shared with him, knowing it would be safe from whichever servant was dispensing the poison for Lovat. At the end of the meal, as she expected, the cook himself brought her a small bowl of honeyed pears that smelled strongly of cinnamon.

  The cook failed to notice the silent signal Lovat attempted to give him before he set the bowl in front of her. When the cook looked up and saw Lovat shaking his head, he reached for the bowl.

  But Sybil was quicker. She thrust her wine cup into his open hand. “More wine, please.”

  “M’lady, let me take those pears back to the kitchen,” he said. “I apologize, but I see that the bowl was not properly cleaned. I’ll have the lass who washed it punished severely.”

  “Nonsense,” Sybil said, gripping the bowl with both hands. “’Tis perfectly fine.”

  When he tried to take it from her, Alain intervened.

  “Leave it,” he said in a sharp tone.


  Sybil toyed with the dish of pears with her spoon as she chatted with Alain. When she glanced at Lovat, there was a sheen of sweat on his brow.

  “Alain,” she said, raising her voice just enough for Lovat to hear, “’tis rude of me to eat these delectable pears on my own. Let me give ye a taste.”

  She held her spoon out. If Alain did not take his gaze from her breasts, she just might give it to him instead of spilling it at the last moment. She had been eating the poison for three days now, so one spoonful would not hurt him much.

  “I’d like a taste of more than your pears,” Alain said, and slurped the spoonful up before she could pull it away.

  “Don’t!” his father shouted a moment too late.

  “Please forgive my rude remark, Lady Sybil,” Alain said, misunderstanding his father’s outburst.

  When Alain squeezed her thigh under the table, she was tempted to feed him the whole bowl of pears, but she satisfied herself by giving him a hard pinch.

  “Behave yourself,” she whispered, then raised her voice. “I hope you’ll sit with me at every meal until Rory returns for me.”

  “Of course I will,” Alain said.

  Sybil turned to meet his father’s gaze. “Would ye like some pears as well? Or have we all had enough?”

  “Quite enough.” Lovat dipped his head, conceding that she had bested him. “As the lady wishes, there shall be no more.”

  ***

  The next morning, Lovat gave her a trunk of his dead wife’s gowns as a peace offering.

  “I hope ye know I had no intention of doing ye permanent harm,” he told her over more excellent wine. “Just a bit of encouragement to leave.”

  “At first I did think ye meant to murder me, but the poison ye chose was too weak,” she said. “While I disagree with your method, I understand you were trying to protect Rory.”

  “Rory has a difficult path, and I did not believe a Lowland noblewoman would be up to the tasks ahead.” He raised his cup to her. “I admit I was wrong.”

  “I want to protect him too, so ye needn’t worry that I’ll tell him about this…incident,” she said. “That would cause a breach between ye and serve him ill.”

  “Of course,” he said. “You’re far too clever to make that mistake.”

  “I do understand that Rory will need a different wife.” Despite herself, her bottom lip trembled. “I’ll not stand in his way when the time comes.”

  “I see,” Lovat said. “What is your plan, my dear?”

  She gave him a weak smile. “I don’t have one yet.”

  “Don’t be in a hurry to leave,” he said, patting her hand. He hesitated before he spoke again. “I’ve done something ye ought to know.”

  “Besides poisoning me?”

  “The day ye arrived, I sent a message to Edinburgh, to your uncle the bishop,” he said. “I told him where to find ye.”

  The message would fall on deaf ears. None of the men in her family had troubled themselves over her plight before she escaped. And they’d all known where to find her.

  When Rory rode through the gates a short time later, Sybil’s heart swelled with joy, and she ran across the courtyard to meet him. He appeared tired and weighed down by troubles until he saw her. He caught her in his arms and spun her around, laughing.

  “Ye came back for me.” Thank God. She closed her eyes and buried her face in his chest.

  “I told ye I would,” he said.

  A part of her had doubted him, despite his promise and what she’d overheard him say to Lovat. Trust was so hard after how she was deserted by her brothers and all her friends.

  “You’re my wife,” Rory said. “I’ll always come back for ye.”

  She felt like a thief, knowing the loyalty he gave her was based on a lie. If Rory knew she was not truly his wife, would he still return?

  The final leg of their journey was far different from the rest. Sybil had her own horse, and they were accompanied by Lovat and a large number of MacKenzie warriors, with more joining them with every mile. This was much like she used to travel in her old life, but she missed riding with just her and Rory on Curan.

  “Your meetings with your clansmen must have gone well,” she said, turning to look at the long line of MacKenzie warriors riding behind them.

  “Aye, but I missed you,” he said with a wink.

  She felt a warm glow of happiness. After a time, she asked, “Did ye find your sister?”

  “I asked everywhere I went.” Rory’s jaw tightened. “No one has seen or heard a word about her.”

  “She said she’d come to ye at Castle Leod, so I’m sure you’ll see her soon.” Sybil prayed it was true, but Rory did not look convinced. “What will happen when we get to the castle?”

  “I’ll make my claim,” Rory said, “and Hector will either swear his loyalty to me or he’ll challenge me.”

  “What happens if he challenges you?”

  “Then the men of the clan will decide between us,” Rory said. “The one not chosen must swear an oath of loyalty to the new chieftain, as will every man present, or be executed.”

  Executed? Sybil prayed even harder that Rory would prevail.

  “If Hector does challenge me,” Rory continued, “it could take several days for the men of the clan to come to agreement on who should be the new chieftain.”

  “And if they don’t agree?”

  “The clan will be divided,” he said, “and there will be bloodshed until one of us concedes, dies, or emerges as the victor.”

  Sybil prayed that it would not come to that. Her heart beat fast as she got her first view of Castle Leod. The large L-shaped tower house was built of beautiful rose-tinged stone and set on a rise amidst gently rolling hills of fertile fields and forest. It looked deceptively peaceful.

  As they approached, she watched the gates, remembering what happened at Eilean Donan, and willed them to open. Suddenly, a horn sounded, loud and clear. The gates opened, and the sound of cheering reached them.

  When they rode into the castle, the courtyard was filled with well-wishers shouting Rory’s name. Tears stung at the back of Sybil’s eyes. This boisterous welcome was better than anything she had dared hope for.

  Rory waved to the crowd and dismounted, leaving her on her horse. She felt the speculative stares of three hundred MacKenzies when he took her horse’s reins and led her through the crowd to the keep, pausing every few feet to grip a man’s arm in greeting or slap his back. She was sure he only meant to keep her from getting lost in the crush, but he was drawing more attention to her than he ought.

  When they reached the keep, Rory lifted her down from the horse, took her hand, and climbed the steps. She paused at the entrance to the castle’s great hall. The hall had no windows, and though it was lit by torches, candles, and the fire in the enormous stone hearth, crossing the threshold was like traveling from day into night.

  Sybil felt as if she was crossing another kind of threshold, one she could not cross back once she stepped through.

  The walls of the large, cavernous room were covered with shields, axes, and various other weapons and seemed to serve as warning to anyone challenging MacKenzie power. Antlers of impressive size hung in the few spaces that did not hold weapons. More intimidating than the weapons were the scores of brawny MacKenzie warriors.

  The crowd parted for Rory, creating an opening down the length of the hall to a raised platform at the far end that held a single chair. Sybil knew without being told that it was the chieftain’s chair. This was Rory’s moment, a day that would be remembered in songs and stories that told the history of his clan.

  “I’ll wait here,” she told him.

  “Nay. I want ye at the front with Alex where he can watch over ye,” he said, then turned to his brother, who had appeared out of nowhere. “Ye know what to do.”

  Rory strode ahead of them through the parted MacKenzies like Moses through the Red Sea and climbed onto the raised platform. Alex gave Sybil a wink as he took her arm, then pr
oceeded to follow Rory, stopping just short of the raised platform.

  From her vantage point at the front of the crowd, she was able to see the details of the chieftain’s ornately carved chair, which appeared to be very old. The arms were carved wolves with bared teeth, and the legs were wild boar with wicked tusks. An image of a stag was carved on the chair’s back. On the wall above the chair, mirroring the antlers on the stag in the carving, was the most massive set of antlers she had ever seen.

  “The stag’s head is the symbol of the MacKenzie chieftain,” Alex said in her ear.

  The crowd pressed against her and grew noisy.

  She looked back over her shoulder at the sunlit doorway at the opposite end of the dusky hall. Though she did not understand why, she could not shake the premonition that her life was about to change again and that nothing would ever be the same.

  CHAPTER 25

  Where in the bloody hell was Hector?

  Rory scanned the hall again. Hector would not give up this easily. If he came and lost, Hector would have had to swear his allegiance and this fight would be over. He must have decided the risk was too great. Though he may have conceded the battle today, that did not mean Hector had given up the war. This would not be settled until Hector swore his allegiance to Rory—or one of them was dead.

  But today belonged to Rory.

  He stood on the dais, mindful of the legacy of the MacKenzie chieftains who had come before him, particularly his grandfather, Alexander the Upright, and his father, Brian of the Battle. Now more than ever, his people needed a man of strength and fortitude to lead them.

  Rory must be that man, and he would be for them.

  He raised his arms, and the noise in the hall died.

  “I am Rory Ian Fraser MacKenzie,” he said in a loud voice. “I am the brother, son, and grandson of MacKenzie chieftains, and their rightful heir.”

  Several men shouted their approval.

  “I hereby claim, as my right and duty,” he said, letting the words that his father and grandfather had spoken before him ring out through the hall, “my place as chieftain of the great Clan MacKenzie!”